


Talk

by jonesyslug



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, F/M, First Person, Gen, M/M, Marriage, No Pronouns For The Player, Optimistic Ending, Player Gender Not Specified
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28749918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonesyslug/pseuds/jonesyslug
Summary: The farmer reflects on time spent with Shane through their relationship, and the things he says."First of all, I should say I love him.That's important."
Relationships: Shane/Player (Stardew Valley)
Kudos: 21





	Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I did this literally because Melon was like "go for it, go for the Shangst" and so they better like this. 
> 
> Hope you like it too.

First of all, I should say I love him.

That's important.

I love his smiles and his laughter, I love his kisses and his passions, the way he can dedicate himself to his projects.

But then in the blink of an eye, he isn't dedicated anymore. 

Something that seemed so important just doesn't occupy his mind the same way.

_ Is it that way with me? _

Maybe when he told me to leave him alone, I should have listened. 

Instead I bought him a drink. 

I kept buying him drinks. He started talking. I started realizing I shouldn't be buying him drinks. 

Maybe late, but not too late. He scared me to death but it wasn't too late. I was right on time. 

He was really going to turn things around. He was smiling more. 

Then I gave him the bouquet. He turned red but he smiled.

_ I love his smile.  _

He took me to a ball game and when we kissed it felt like the cheering was for us. We made it. 

He had a beer in his hand. 

I didn't say anything. I know it's hard. 

_ We don't talk about it. _

At the Stardrop, he only drinks sparkling cider and everyone is so happy and warm to us. 

**_There's the farmer, the one who made Shane smile._ **

That's too much credit for me. He's going to therapy. If anything, he made me smile. 

Then I gave him the shell. I remember my grandfather telling me about when he gave my grandmother a shell. It was just as magical as I imagined. 

Because he said yes. 

So he moved in with me, and I gave him his own space, we built a chicken coop together, just for him.

I wanted him to feel at home. I wanted him to be at home, now. 

_ So why don't we talk about it?  _

He tells me he'll have just a few more beers before closes his eyes for the night, and when he kisses me, it tastes the same as the first time.

It's not supposed to taste that way any more.

I remember going to his fridge to sneak a cola and seeing slender silver cans between the leftovers of his attempts at cooking. 

I remember turning around and seeing him, staring at the floor.

_ Why didn't we talk about it?  _

I remember the first time he skipped therapy, even though the bus is working again. He said he just wanted to sleep all day.

He says the strangest things. He is too deep inside his own head. 

I wonder if he talks to his chickens.

He jokes, I hope, about drinking more wine, right after I reluctantly accepted the keg. 

Wine makes good money. I tell myself that. I put the keg as far away from the house as I can without insulting him.

I remember the day I came home from fishing, burnt and tired, and all I wanted was to be in his arms. 

He asked me why the house was messy. He was so mad. 

I looked around to try to find the mess he was talking about, but all I could see was the muddy footprints and crushed cans in his den.

He wouldn’t let me in the house. He just stood in the doorway.

I slept on the porch.

The next day he says he knows he's lucky to have me. We don't talk about it.

_ Why don't we talk about it? _

I tell him he can quit working at the Joja Mart, I tell him his chickens are helping and we're making ends meet just with the farm.

He says his job makes him miserable, so I give him an out. He doesn't take it. 

Maybe he likes being miserable. 

Maybe he only knows how to be miserable.

He sees right through me like I'm not there. He doesn't see the way the bags under my eyes get darker every day. 

Or maybe he does. 

Sometimes he lets me sleep in. He waters the crops and looks after the animals. 

Sometimes. 

Not enough to make me forget that when he says he'll stay home and sweep up, nothing looks different. Almost nothing.

There are more cans on the floor. 

_ Why don't we talk about it? _

Every day I feel like he is stagnating, and it's my fault. He says he'll drink pumpkin ale, because it's fall, and I have no response. He has nothing else to say.

He stares at the flames in the fire and I know he's thinking. I always see him standing and thinking. 

I thought after we married, there would be...more. Different. Something.

But he still stands by the fire with a beer in his hand, just in a different building. 

I dream and work and talk to people in town. Mostly they're nice.

Mostly they want something from me.

It makes me tired.

I go to church and no one says a thing. To Yoba, to each other. No one makes offering of crop or voice of praise.

I don't go back to church.

There is no sign of the vessel in our home. I don't know what I believe, but I don't know what he believes either. 

I hear him mention Yoba once, to call his name ironic. 

I want to tell him that he is  _ my  _ gift from Yoba. But I don't say anything. 

I kiss him at the door every day. He knows I love him. He has to. But I don't say it. 

_ Why can't I say it? _

Well, it's not like he says it. 

But I know he loves me. 

_ Why can't he say it? _

Why does so much go unspoken? Why is our home so quiet? All I wanted to do was talk to him. From the day we met, all I've wanted to do is talk to him. For a while, we did talk. 

He talked to me. He didn't want to die. I wasn't going to let him die.

I feel like we're both dying, every night rotting a little more in our bed, our shared grave. 

He sleeps so heavy, it scares me. He never wakes up when I come home late, covered in soot and scratches, too tired from the mines to shower before sleep. 

He sleeps so heavy that he seems dead. I find myself wishing I could sleep like that. 

And then I do. I sleep in late because I hear the rain, and that means I don't have to water the crops today. 

I reach out as I wake up and the bed is empty.

I get up, and the house is empty.

I walk out into the rain with no regard for getting muddy and drenched. I just want to know that he's okay. 

I am about to run into town when I hear the deep pitch of his voice coming from his chicken coop, muffled by the rain so that I can't hear what he's saying, but I'd know that sound anywhere. 

I rush into the coop. He is sitting on the floor with a mug of the half fermented cranberry wine I'm making, and Charlie on his lap.

His eyes are so wide when he looks up at me. I've never come to his chicken coop before.

His face is wet, but his clothes are dry. He looks scared. He's been caught again. 

I don't say anything. 

I walk over and sit down beside him. I gently take the mug from his hand and hold it instead.

I kiss his knuckles. 

"Why don't we talk about it?" 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Here's what Melon said: "me psychically making you write a new authors note: CONCERNED APE,,,PLEEEASE change Shane's after marriage actions and dialogue ur making me emotional"
> 
> Also the thing about sleeping on the porch cos he was mad the house was messy was a real glitch (?) that happened to me, im not being overly angst for no reason sjsbsjsjsjjs


End file.
